Perspective

I have mastitis again.

I sensed the beginning of another infection on Sunday, and by Monday it was unmistakeable. I started antibiotics (again) at noon yesterday. Last night I suffered through my all too familiar cycles of sweating and shivering while my right breast turned bright red and so tender to the touch that I couldn't sleep on that side.

When Clayton woke up to eat, I tried and tried and tried to put him to the breast. Up until last night, he would still nurse in the middle of the night, but insisted on the bottle at all other times. I knew this night was coming--when he would outright refuse to nurse and I would be forced to give him the bottle and then pump to replace what he had taken. I wake up praying every night that he will nurse, as much for the convenience as for the sweet bonding of breastfeeding. His high pitched shrieks at my tortuous insistence that he nurse and not take a bottle eventually woke both my husband and the queen and I finally surrendered and gave him a bottle. Actually, Chad gave him a bottle and I pumped. I guess for the first time in a thousand baby nights in our house, Chad will get to share in the wee hour bonding. And I will be bonding with my pump at the same time.

So, I've been struggling not to descend into a self pity party all day. I want to nurse this baby, just like I did all my others. I love nursing, the elegant simplicity of it, the precious connectedness of it. I hate pumping, heating bottles, cleaning bottles, monitoring Clay's intake and my output. Nursing is so much easier and sweeter.

I came down to check my email this morning and came across a blog posting from a woman we know through school. Her daughter was in Claire's class (just 4 years old) and was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive bone cancer. She was given a 30% chance of survival. The mother started her post with an apology for her "whining" and then proceeded to describe a conversation with her daughter where they had to discuss why she was different than everyone else and why she had to hurt so much.

It kind of puts my struggles in perspective, right? Clayton is a big, healthy, active, happy baby boy. Would that all the trials mothers face were solved as easily as mine--with a bottle, a pump, and a get-over-yourself kick in the pants.

Of Chaos and Balance

Call it a sense of balance. Tell me I thrive on chaos.

Whatever it is, tonight when Grace was invited to (yes, another) sleepover, I let her go like I usually do, with the tiniest tug at my heart to see how grown up and confident she is becoming. How very easy it is for her to fly away from my nest these days!

At supper, which always seems so quiet when one child, even one as mild mannered as Gracie, is missing, Chad suggested that we have an outside movie. Don't ask me what comes over me in these moments, but I suddenly heard myself saying, "Sammy, maybe you can invite A. over."

An hour later, my home is back to 5 children full. Sam and A. are happily tormenting the little sisters with a remote controlled dinosaur (Lucy keeps calling it the "scare-wy lion") and Chad is setting up the projector outside. I've been telling people all day how tired I am and seriously, I could happily have been snuggled off to dreamland right now.

Oh well. The little girls play beautifully together and A. is an easy-going, lively little boy who will keep Sam from going into a Disney Channel coma for the rest of the night. And, after all, what's one more?

Garage Sale

In a few minutes, Chad will walk in the door and ask me how I'm coming on the garage sale.

He has been after me for months to have a garage sale and I have really struggled to muster any enthusiasm for the idea. It is not that we don't have an excess of junk that may or may not be perceived as treasure for the hordes of garage sale enthusiasts that comb our street and every other one every Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. It's just I can't get into it this year.

I will admit that we have been kicking around the idea of moving since we found out Clayton was on his way. It is slightly embarassing to me that we can't make a house with 3 finished levels, 4 bathrooms, and 3 healthy sized bedrooms accomodate all of us. It really is fine for the people that live here. We could all have 2-3 rooms completely to ourselves if we wanted. It is all of our stuff. Really, by global standards we have a vast abundance of space. It is only by American standards that we are cramped (and I'd be willing to bet there are thousands of New York City dwellers that would take our floorspace in a heartbeat).

We also have about 12 years left on our mortgage. That means we could be mortgage free before we send our second child to college. We love our location, the kids love the neighborhood, and neither Chad nor I is really excited about the prospect of trying to keep a new house nice with our flock of messy little birds constantly into everything.

So we need to declutter. And Chad likes the idea of getting some cash for it. I'm okay with the cash part, but it seems like an inefficient way of making it. The last time we had a garage sale it was so massive that we had an entire truckful of leftover junk. And over the course of a week's worth of hauling stuff, setting up, and pricing and a weekend's worth of sitting at a table while attempting to herd little ducks we made a measly $100. I don't think I have an overinflated sense of my own worth, but I am absolutely certain that 40 hours of my time is worth more than $100.

I have tentatively made arrangements with my sister in law to host a garage sale this weekend. And so far, I have done absolutely nothing for it. So I am tempted to just say forget it. I am not interested in surrendering an entire weekend to it. I know we have plenty of crap to get rid of, but my youngest daughter is 2 and my youngest son is just 4 months. I can't give up much of my baby stuff yet. My standards for my kids' clothes at daycare and at home on weekends is extremely low. Any clothes I am ready to get rid of are not likely to garner much money. And I wear an extremely uncommon size. Everything I own must be purchased at a specialty store for the excessively tall, and is generally fairly expensive. Consequently, I don't give it up until far past its fashion expiration and shabbiness dates. Again--it would be an extremely niche garage saler interested in my cast offs. So, I'll be left with McDonalds happy meal toy my kids are sure to fall madly in love with as soon as I dust them off and put a price tag on them and the handful of stuffed animals my kids can live without (many of which we got out of the "free for the taking" bin at our neighbor's garage sales).

Ugh. Just writing out my reasons makes me even less enthusiastic about this whole endeavor. I believe I shall open the negotiations with my husband with an agreement to work on it with him if he agrees not to go to work after 3p on Friday and all day on Saturday. I believe I will also go open a bottle of wine.

The triatholon and the hot moms: a story of hope

This past weekend, Grace and Sam competed in the Hy Vee Iron Kids triatholon. Grace was originally signed up and Sam begged to be included after she came home with her booty bag. The race started with a trip down the water slide at Sutton Pool. What a cool way to start a triatholon, don't you think?

Then they both swam, biked, and ran (Sam did 50 yards swimming, 2 miles biking, and 500 yards running; Grace did 150 yards, 4 miles, and 1 mile).

I was so proud of my little athletes. Both were heavily encouraged by their dad, who has competed in marathons and 5ks for years. I've always been more of an organized sport kind of girl--and running was usually just a means to an end. Still, I love that my kids are interested in this sort of activity. I'm a huge proponent of sports and physical activity for kids. Even when I'm not the world's biggest fan of the sport (guess what I'm referring to here), I still think anything that gets kids away from the tv and the computer and out moving their bodies is a good thing (though perhaps the intrinsic value is a bit muted by the treat factor--but I digress). And this triatholon was certainly not for the faint of heart.

More, with all that you hear these days about body image and anorexia (even in boys!) I love that they are learning the value of a healthy, strong body and how good it can make them feel at a young age. I believe sports had a major impact in my own lack of real body image issues over the years. Don't get me wrong, I am very realistic about the aesthetic and proportional challenges of my own hulking 6 foot frame, but growing up, I was much more wont to mourn my lack of quickness in the 50 yard dash and the lack of height in my vertical jump than the width of my hips or the unfortunate physical similarities between my giant feet and a pair of thick cut pork chops. There is nothing more bittersweet than looking at the perfect,beloved bodies of your babies as they grow, and recognizing that, in spite of all your prayers, they just may have inherited some of your less desireable physical characteristics. But I am grateful that they are showing some aptitude for physical activities (as yet no one seems interested in learning my turn around jump shot, but I haven't given up yet). Not that I have ever run a triatholon--which brings me to the second part of my story.

Shortly after we arrived at the event, I soon started running into people I knew--a former high school basketball teammate, our old daycare provider, and 2 moms of kids in Sammy's class. They are both about my height, but both blonde and about 50 pounds lighter than me. From here on out, they shall be referred to as "the hot moms." I really like the hot moms. They are always doing cool things and they are always saying they are going to invite me along, though, of course, I've been holed up at home gestating, nursing and pumping for the last year or so and they have never actually invited me. 2 weeks ago they did Ragbrai. The month before that they went camping--just the moms and kids. See? Cool. One of them--Hot Mom S., has 4 kids. Her second oldest is a girl in Sam's class. Hot Mom H. has just one kid--a boy in Sammy's class.

Anyway, I got to talking to hot mom S. and she told me that they are doing a mini-triatholon in Galena in May. She said I should join them and I am so, so tempted. I really did used to be pretty fit. I considered missing a work out akin to skipping brushing your teeth. Today, I tried to do yoga after work. I got, literally, 3 minutes into the DVD when my foot cramped unbearably (it just hasn't been the same since I sprained my ankle getting out of my rocking chair on maternity leave. That is a true story). Then the baby started crying, I remembered that Gracie had soccer practice in about 10 minutes (blasted soccer), and Lucy invited me to come see her poopy. The DVD is still on pause in the living room. As if I'll go back to it.

So, now I'm dreaming of becoming a triathlete in my spare time. I have time to think about it, right? May is eons away. Hot mom S also invited us to a pool party at her house that afternoon.

Unfortunately, my bikini was in the wash so we didn't make it. There's always next time.

Good Clean Fun

Today, the kids and I buckled down and decided to clean out the van. Any mother of more than 1 child (and maybe even just one child) over the age of 3 knows that "mini-van" is only a code word for trash/soccer crap/stroller-diaperbag-cheerio-lego carrying device. Oh. And in the summertime--shoes. In the school year, the floor of the mini-van is the favorite hiding place for permission slips, report cards, and critical homework instructions.

The flotsam and jetsam of modern motherhood was getting pretty thick in the old red Chrysler, so the kids and I promised Chad that we would wade in.

"Cleaning the car" to the gradeschool set, of course, involves the hose and lots and lots of messy, soapy fun. "Cleaning the car" to the Playboy set involves skimpy bikini tops, daisy dukes and lots of ample cleavage. Thanks to the milk fairy, I've got the cleavage part covered. I haven't, however, worn a bikini in about 3 and a half decades.

In a slightly pathetic attempt at flirting with my husband, I batted my eyelashes at him and asked if he wanted me to clean the car in my (make believe) bikini. My husband, like most men in their mid to late thirties, is so incredibly grateful for the sacrifice my body has made over the past 10 years in delivering him several healthy, beautiful children that he barely notices and certainly doesn't mind the stretchmarks and saddlebags. (Uh-huh).

"Sure," he snorted. "It is okay if I move the van to the backyard first so the neighbors don't see you?"

Humph.

A picture is worth a thousand words

Lessons from my daughters

Lesson number one: be careful what you say around them (or at least how often you say it).

Me, sighing, dressing her for the 3rd time today: Oh, Lucy.

Lucy (age 2): What? I drive-oo nuts? What heck?

Lesson number two: self confidence is a good thing

Me, wistfully (packing Claire--age 5--off to her first sleepover): Are you going to miss me?

Claire, confusedly: No.

Me: Are you going to be scared?

Claire, tilting her head and wrinkling her brow and her nose, more confused than ever: No.

Lesson number three: don't feel guilty about leaving them with a sitter

Me: I don't think daddy and I are going to go out tonight after all

Grace: What?! Why?

Me: Daddy has to work late

Grace: But Mo-om. Abby (sitter) and I have PLANS.

Me (brightly): I'm sorry, honey. Maybe we can do something fun together.

Grace (hopefully): Maybe you could call one of your friends.

Queen mother

If the queen ever has a baby, these are the things someone must remind me to do:
1. Become obsessed with the baby's binkie and stick it in my every available bodily orifice (ears, nose, my own mouth, down my pants) immediately before "helping" by putting it in the baby's mouth.
2. Race into the quiet place she has designed for nursing (this will be especially relevant if the baby is a distractible or otherwise poor nurser) and then loudly describing my every move while simultaneously shoving the baby out of the way and trying to climb on her lap.
3. Climb into the crib with the sleeping baby and then proclaim joyfully, "Baby's awake! He opens eyes!"
4. Insist upon walking right in that mama blindspot in front of her knees and under the baby so mother and child are at constant risk of tumbling ass over applecarts.
5. Lick the baby, usually on the head or feet.
6. Refuse to allow a single bath or diaper change to occur without my "help".
7. Go to the bathroom and ask sweetly, "you wanna see my poopy?" just when she sits down to pump.
9. Insist that she hold and rock me when she has finally managed to extract herself from baby contact for the first time in 8-12 hours. Then proceed to bounce around madly, bopping a big hard head against her poor beleagured boobies.
10. Never, never, never go to sleep quietly or easily, instead wandering the house wailing while baby bedtime rituals are being conducted.
11. Gaze with awe and wonder at the sight of her precious baby, kiss and cuddle him with all the sweetness in the world and pour all of the love of my wild, distractible little self into her tiny beloved child.

I hate soccer night

I know it isn't very PC of me to say, but its true. I dread Wednesdays with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. (to put it lightly).

I was complaining about soccer night to Chad this morning, and he said, "I don't know what you are complaining about. It's not that bad." In the interest of marital harmony, I just made a small, non-commital noise and headed off to work. Instead I will vent here. (And, might I just say, I probably wouldn't hate soccer night either if all I had to do was walk in 10 minutes before it was time to leave, eat a hot meal someone else planned for and prepared and then stand by the door bellowing that we were going to be late. Ok, in his defense, he really has shouldered a large portion of the burden of soccer night. He's taken the kids when I was home nursing my cantankerous little boy and fighting the booby flu. He stood in the line in the freezing January snow to sign them up and has sat in the blazing heat for every single practice for both Grace & Sam this entire season. He has done more than his share and he doesn't hate it. I still do).

What soccer night entails for me is a tedious search for not one, not two, but three sets of uniforms, socks, shin guards, soccer balls and shoes (do the math--the probability of all those things not turning up in bizarre places like downstairs on the treadmill or in the backyard treehouse are practically non-existent). It involves at least 10 pleading reminders to fill water bottles and two wrestling matches over sitting still for ponytails. It also includes a desperate attempt to feed 5 little ducks (one of which requires 10 minutes alone with my pump), and at least put away the perishables before we leave. It means packing the diaper bag for all weather conditions (it is invariably 10 degrees different at the soccer complex--sometimes hotter directly under the summer sun, oftentimes colder and more windy) and many hours of outdoor exposure with only limited accessibility of either running water or flushing toilets (great fun with my just trained 2 year old). It also requires blankets and chairs for sitting on and diversions for the littlest ducks. All of this must be packed in such a manner as to allow for transportability as we hike (I swear) mile after mile to and among fields for the 3 games we need to watch. That doesn't even cover treat night. Of which, of course, I get 3 turns at.

So, let's talk for a minute about treats. The games last 1 hour, and each team has enough players for 2 full teams, meaning the kids all play half the game. The treat mom (it's always the mom) provides snacks for BOTH halftime AND the end of the game. Its usually fruit at halftime and some sort of prepackaged treat or candy and a juice box afterwards. Now, I played sports for the vast majority of my childhood and even all through college. I don't ever remember getting any sort of refreshment EVER beyond cold water. (I take that back--I think once in awhile in COLLEGE we got gatorade--just the plain lemon/lime kind mind you. Not mountain berry blast plus vitamins or any such nonsense). So, my kids play 1/2 of 1/2 of a game and they require nourishment. Then they play another 1/2 of 1/2 of a game and they get another snack and a drink. What? When I was in college i had friends who played soccer. Their WARM UP usually entailed a 5 mile run. The royal treatment required by these little "athletes" is light years away from that kind of stamina and effort. And don't even get me started on the impact these treats have on the younger siblings.

Now, imagine for a moment my delight at providing said snacks for a pack of 5 (Claire), 7 (Sam) or 9 (Grace) year old children. Picture me with a cooler, a blanket, and 2 adult lawn chairs and 1 child's chair dangling from the stroller, my diaper bag slung across my shoulder and a bag of treats in my other hand, the baby in the front pack, the queen clinging to my legs as I trudge across three full size soccer fields to reach my child's team. I could load up and walk beside a full size camel and look less conspicuous.

All three kids play on the same night, which is probably a blessing as I'm not sure I could survive 2 soccer nights in a week. But it does mean that my little caravan has to up and move at least once and often twice during the course of the evening. The soccer complex is roughly the size of your average small town, so the trek can be quite extensive. Don't even get me started on the parking at this place. Suffice it to say, driving from field to field is not a viable option. Of course Chad is with me and of course he helps, though we often do have to divide and conquer in order to watch our kids play. We generally give the little ones and whoever isn't playing at the time the option of where they want to go. Guess which parent they usually choose to accompany?

I have honestly considered filling a water bottle with beer or some sort of cocktail in order to take the edge off this despised night. But I usually have to drive (either because it is all I can handle to get the first child out the door with her dad while I follow with the little ones, and the later gamers, or because Chad often takes pity on me and lets me leave once the last game has begun).

Once I finally collapse in my lawn chair at the first game, I could care less about soccer. To be honest, I don't know that much about the game, so I could care less about soccer if they played these games in my backyard. My kids are not destined for greatness on the soccer field, if these early attempts are any indication. Between the 3 over the course of a season that began in May, I believe a Lueken has been responsible for the scoring of 1 goal. (Update: Claire scored a goal tonight--2 goals scored by Luekens this season).

I am usually so grumpy by the end of soccer night that I could spit. But 3/4 of the town is crawling all over the complex on soccer night, so I am invariably required to play nice and make small talk with acquaintance after acquaintance. I try to smile. I try not to curse. I try not to give away that I can't remember anyone's name (in spite of the fact that I am always completely sober). I am usually so sweaty and disheveled by this point I'm sure these former classmates and co-workers walk away shaking their heads and thinking how much I have let myself go since this last baby.

Tonight, a former lunch lady from good old St. Joes recognized me from church and insisted on walking me to my car. I think she really feared I would lose one of the ducks in the crush of (other) crazed soccer moms and mini vans.

See why I hate soccer night. But, just look at them. Aren't they cute?

Ants in my pants

Many people at my work opt to walk for exercise during their half hour lunch period. In spite of the heat, I have been trying to join them as often as I can since I've been back to work.

I relish that 3o minutes away from the artificially lit, climate controlled atmosphere of cubicle city. I drink in the sunshine and fresh air (even when it has more in common with warm water than one might desire) and, more often than not, head towards one end of the factory where there is a narrow gravel path near a small, wooded area. The trees do my soul good.

Yesterday, I could tell it was late summer by the mad dance of the grasshoppers and other bugs in the tall grass. Little buzzing things, disturbed by my footsteps, whirred madly out of my path as I walked. Bugs have never bothered me too much. My husband has me kill the scarier ones that find their way in our house (don't tell him I said that).

When I finished my walk, I ran into a friend of mine I haven't seen since I left work to have Clayton. Before I left, she had just announced her first pregnancy and now she is adorably, gloriously round, 4 weeks from her due date. We all know my great enthusiasm for all things gestational and baby related, so we conversed happily for several minutes.

At one point, I became aware of a strange buzzing near my hip. I casually pulled my blackberry from my pocket and checked my status. No new calls, texts, voice mails, or facebook updates. Strange. The buzz returned, slightly more to the side. Then again, near my behind. And again closer to my hip again.

I was growing distracted and my grip on the conversation lessened. My body has been through a lot in the last decade or so, and strange twinges and pains are not exactly uncommon. But this was just weird. I excused myself and stuck my hand in my pocket. I felt a tiny, fuzzy lump about the size of a marble through the fabric of my trousers. I felt a slight pinch, and then I squeezed the squashy ball shaped thing mercilessly. I looked down to see the body of one of those round bumblebees near the toe of my left shoe. At which point I had to wonder: Did that THING just fall out of my PANT LEG?

I raced inside the office to the nearest bathroom, trying to keep from screaming, running, or wriggling my hips too furiously (and most unprofessionally) at the creepy, crawly sensations now engulfing me. I slammed into a bathroom stall and stripped to my skin, wiggling everything below my elbows as madly as I possibly could. I found nothing, though the skin on my left hip was discolored, slightly swollen, and now starting to swell slightly. Bee sting?

So, I'm pretty sure a bumble bee flew up my pant leg (because even the most madly suicidal bug couldn't have worked his way between my waistband and my still squashy belly skin), and buzzed merrily about inside them until I realized his existence and smooshed him to his death.

Seriously. Does this kind of thing happen to anyone else?

Days of Grace

My dearest Grace,

How to begin?

In the minutes after your birth (can it really be 9 years ago?), I lay in the recovery room with your dad by my side deciding on your name. We had 2 on our list: Lucy and Grace.

"I think she's a Grace," your dad said firmly.

"Really?" I replied. "I was thinking Grace until I saw her, but now I'm thinking Lucy."

"Her name is Grace," your dad replied. I acquiesced. Never have I been so grateful for not getting my own way.

You are a grace, a blessing, to all who know you--but most of all to me. A few minutes later, when I finally, finally, got to hold you in my arms and study your perfection from the top of your little round head, faintly dusted with a shimmer of gold, to the tips of your chubby feet complete with that weird, crooked second toe you share with your daddy and all of your brothers and sisters, I knew you were my Grace. My amazing Grace.

You are an incredible person--one I am so, so grateful to have in my life. You are the child I'm sure I don't deserve. Your kindness, sensitivity, and sweetness surpass everyone's expectaions of a child your age. And we've said that every year. I truly don't know how 2 people like your dad and I had anything do do with creating you. I tell you kids that babies are made when God takes a little bit of mommy, a little bit of daddy, and a little bit of magic. With you, God went heavy on the magic.

These are the words of one of your classmate's moms in an email to me recently. "E. loves your Grace. She speaks of her as being truly genuine, sweet, and unaffected by much of the girl drama that ensues (so unfortunate!) among the girls in that grade." You'll remember that after Clayton's baptism, a fellow parishioner approached us and said that your dad and I must be so proud of you for being such a selfless and sweet big sister to all the little ducks. The school's principal recently told us that the entire school looks to you as a role model of kindness, respect, and true Christianity. Wow. You aren't supposed to use generalities in either writing or arguments, but in this case a little generalization is warranted. I hear things like that about you all the time. (I tell people you came that way, because no parenting technique in the world could create such a character and temperament as yours).

I couldn't be prouder, happier, or more humbled to call you my daughter. You make me better for knowing you. You fill me to the core with the joy and awe of motherhood. I am so proud of the person you are, the lovely lady you are becoming. I say it all the time, and I'll end with it today--every mom should have a Grace.

I love you, sweetie.

Mom